Ace of Spooks
by Rambling Scribe
Summary: Short piece of silliness inspired by the BBC Original British Drama trailer. No spoilers. "I'm annoyed," Ruth replied, "because you never let me drive."


**Disclaimer: Spooks belongs to Kudos and the BBC.**

**A/N: Just a short piece of silliness inspired by the snippets of Series 10 shown in the new BBC Original British Drama trailer. No spoilers.**

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><p>Deciding he might as well listen to the <em>Today<em> programme whilst he waited for Ruth, Harry turned the key in the ignition of the Range Rover. The noise that immediately assaulted his ears was most definitely _not_ James Naughtie. Instead, the car was filled with the unmistakeable sound of thrash metal; at a migraine inducing volume.

Harry fiddled with the buttons and dials on the dashboard, desperate to silence the racket before his eardrums started to bleed. Unable to get the stereo to respond to either the controls in the car or his repeated profanities, he started pressing buttons on the keyfob. Unfortunately, all that succeeded in doing was adding the car's alarm to the cacophony. In disgust, he yanked the key out of the ignition, which at least silenced the radio.

The alarm, however, was still wailing, attracting the attention of two of his nosier neighbours. And as he tried to get out of the car to explain that everything was all right, Harry discovered that whatever permutation of buttons he'd pressed on the keyfob had also locked him in the vehicle.

"Bollocking, arsing buggery," he muttered, trying to remember the correct sequence to unlock the car.

He was relieved when he at least managed to select the right combination to stop the alarm. Wary of setting it off again, Harry conceded defeat and began to rummage about in the glove-box looking for the Range Rover's handbook. He found it, eventually, buried under three packets of pocket tissues, two opened bags of _Fox's Glacier Mints_, a wizened satsuma, a parking ticket, a programme from a choral recital at St. Martin-in-the-fields and a receipt from the Ann Summers shop in Victoria. Dated the previous day. Which was interesting.

He was still studying the receipt and contemplating the delights that might be in store for him when Ruth knocked on the window.

"Open the bloody door," she called.

Harry waved the handbook at her. "In a minute – there's a slight technical problem."

"Come on." She tapped harder on the glass. "We're going to be late."

Harry ignored her and concentrated on finding the page that detailed the dark arts of manipulating the Range Rover's keyfob. A couple of minutes later there was a familiar 'thunk' as the central locking released and Ruth opened the door.

"About time, Harry. What were you playing at?"

"Bit of an issue with the radio."

"The radio?"

"Yes. As soon as I turn the key, this happens."

Once again the car filled with the sound of distorted electric guitars and a voice that belonged to someone who seemed to have been gargling with gravel.

"Oh dear," said Ruth, after Harry took the key out of the ignition again.

"Funny thing is, it wasn't doing that yesterday."

"No."

It didn't escape Harry's attention that she was trying not to laugh.

"You wouldn't know anything about this would you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. There's no one else here; no one who has had access to the keys."

"So you're blaming me?" Ruth asked, indignantly.

"You were the one who brought the last of the shopping in yesterday. And you were desperate for me not to help."

Ruth decided it was time to change tack; she gave Harry a sweet smile and rested her hand on his leg. "I didn't do anything, really." She squeezed his thigh. "You do believe me don't you?"

Harry's mind drifted back to the Ann Summers receipt. Perhaps she'd bought something for the long weekend they had planned…

Keen to make the most of the advantage she had, Ruth leaned forward and kissed Harry. It was a soft, teasing kiss; chaste enough to not frighten the neighbours but promising passion once they were in private.

"Tell me how to switch it off, Ruth."

Damn. Too chaste.

"I don't know how."

"Yes you do. Now tell me."

"No."

"Please," Harry cajoled.

"No."

"But we need to get to work and I can't drive with that…that…noise blaring out."

"Well then you know what the solution is, don't you?"

Light dawned.

"Ah, so now we're getting to the crux of the matter. You're annoyed with me because I wouldn't let you drive back from the supermarket."

"I'm annoyed," Ruth replied, "because you never let me drive."

"That's not true."

"Well if it's not true, you won't mind if I drive us to Thames House."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"See? You're behaving like a Neanderthal. I'm quite capable of driving this car. Of driving any car."

"Rubbish."

"What?"

"Well, no…not rubbish. That's not what I meant," said Harry, hastily backtracking.

"So what did you mean?"

"Just that there's no need for you to drive. Not when you've got me."

"Oh for God's sake," Ruth spluttered.

"Like you said, we're going to be late so can you please tell me how to switch off that hideous excuse for music and get Radio 4 back."

"I like _Motorhead_."

"Of course you do. Which is why the house is littered with their CDs. Not to mention your complete _Black Sabbath_ collection."

"There's no need for sarcasm."

"You think not?"

"All I want to do is drive this car. Why do you have such a problem with that?"

"I don't."

"Then give me the key."

"No."

"Fine," said Ruth, getting out of the car. "I'll get the bus instead. See you later."

"OK, you can drive." Harry held up the keyfob but just as Ruth reached for it, his hand closed around it. "On one condition."

She glared at him, tempted to leave him to the aural delights of Lemmy and Co. until several fat raindrops splashed onto the pavement. "What condition?"

"Tell me what you bought from Ann Summers."

Ruth held out her hand. "Key first."

Harry dropped it into her palm. "So?"

"You know what you joked about buying me for my birthday?"

"Yes."

She smiled at him.

Bloody Hell, thought Harry, he should have given her his car keys a long time ago.

_The End_

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading. <strong>


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